AURORA AUSTRALIS.
Chucks, you’ve been called twice”. The first time must have been the paint-brush in the ribs.
I realise that I have to stand ‘my two hours watch in the stables, so struggling out of my blankets, I grope sleepily for the socks I have been sleeping on, in the vain hope of drying them; stepping on the spot where a box should be, I land with a bump on the deck.
Down “Oyster Alley” I am thrown by a roll of the ship, ‘Sorry’, I say to the bunk into which I am thrown, before I notice it is empty. Clutching everywhere I return to where my clothes should be, only to find that the box has returned, and I stub my toe against it. I don’t say ‘sorry,’ but make a grab at my trousers and gingerly push one leg into their damp cold recesses. I wish I had not taken them off, but before I can settle in my mind which would have been the better plan, I am thrown violently against a moving box, and together we roll and slide until the deck is fairly level; then as Joyce runs up the ladder with practised steps, I struggle into the rest of my clothes and follow as best I can.
The watch we are relieving come along muttering, “Rough night, pony still down,” and literally dive below. I am deafened by the roaring wind,
